


Secret Sansa

by Whedonista93



Series: Spirit of the Season [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Magic, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27852726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: When Sandor flees King's Landing, he never expects to find a home in a woman shrouded in mystery and magic in the North.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Spirit of the Season [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039010
Comments: 30
Kudos: 92





	1. New Year

Sandor starts working for the Lannister family when he’s seventeen. It takes twenty years for him to break free. When he finally does, he flees as far North as he can go without leaving civilization. Wintertown is a big town, but still seems to be the type of place where everyone knows everyone.

He gets odd looks, when he first moves there. Northmen are big, almost as big as him, so he doesn’t get as many looks for _that_ , but his scars still draw attention. He buys a building downtown, sight unseen, that boasts a livable second story apartment and a ground level shop, then loads his old pickup up with his - admittedly few - possessions and points North.

On the last leg of the journey, a bout of insomnia hits him at the hotel, so he checks out and drives through the early hours of the morning, arriving with the dawn and finding an old diner to wait until the businesses in town open.

He takes a seat at the far end of the counter, where he can see the door.

The waitress, a dark haired youngish woman with a sharp smile and a wild gleam in her eyes nods her head in greeting. “Mornin’, sugar. Coffee?”

Sandor nods. “Please. And pancakes, with fried eggs and bacon.”

She calls his order back, then fills the mug in front of him and salutes him with the pot. “Happy New Year.”

Sandor blinks. “It’s New Years?”

The waitress nods at him. “Sure is, sugar.”

“Fuck,” Sandor curses.

The waitress raises a brow.

Sandor remembers enough grace to blush. “Sorry. Suppose this is the kinda town where most businesses shut down for New Years?”

“Supposin’ right. Throw a wrench in your plans?”

Sandor nods. “Was hoping to meet with my realtor.”

“Movin’ up this way?”

“Aye.”

The waitress taps her chin with her pen. “Ain’t much sold around here lately… you buy that old brick place downtown, then?”

Sandor shrugs. “Haven’t actually seen it. Listing said livable apartment and something about a shop.”

“Direwolf Realty?”

“Aye, that was the company.”

“Right, then,” she smiles.

“Order up!” Someone calls from the back.

The waitress spins and grabs Sandor’s breakfast and winks as she hands it to him. “Back in a jiff, sugar.”

Sandor focuses on his food. The bell above the door jingles as he finishes his plate off, and he freezes at the sight that greets him when he glances up. A tall, lithe redhead practically bounces into the diner, windswept hair swinging loose down her back. She’s in a red sweater dress, cinched around her tiny waist with a wide black belt over thick black tights tucked into knee high black boots. The waitress smiles broadly at her and nods to Sandor, and before Sandor can even process that she’s coming toward him, the woman is standing in front of him with a cheerful smile and twinkling blue eyes.

She holds a hand out. “Mr. Clegane?”

Sandor reaches for her hand by pure muscle memory. He’s surprised by calluses he can’t quite determine the origins of. “Aye. But Sandor’s fine.”

Her smile grows impossibly wider. “I’m Sansa Stark, with Direwolf Realty.” She nods to the waitress. “Osha called and said you were here. Can’t have you out in the cold all day. Would you like to see your new home?”

Sandor nods. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Not at all.”

Sandor pulls his wallet out, but Osha waves him off. “Welcome to Wintertown, sugar.”

Sandor learned the futility of arguing with strong-willed women a long time ago, and settles for sticking a ten in the tip jar.

“Couple coffees to go, San?” Osha asks.

Sansa nods gratefully. “Please?”

“Mocha?”

Sansa groans. “Gods, I love you.”

Osha winks and pushes a couple paper cups into their hands in short order.

Sandor hates himself before he even opens his mouth as they step onto the sidewalk, knowing it’s going to sound trite, but he finds he can’t help wanting to talk to her, about anything. “You’re out early. Didn’t watch the ball drop?”

Sansa scrunches her nose. “Gods no. I love the New Year, but I hate the ball drop in King’s Landing.” She shrugs. “I just don’t sleep much. You’re out early too.”

Sandor shrugs back. “I just don’t sleep much.”

Sansa laughs delightedly. “Quite the pair, then, aren’t we?”

Sandor looks away from her and at the sidewalk, realizing he’d been blindly following her down the block. “Er, where are we going?”

Sansa blushes. “Oh! Your building is less than two blocks from the diner, and it isn’t so terribly cold. Do you mind walking?”

Sandor grunts and shoves his hands in his pockets. “ _This_ ‘isn’t so terribly cold’?”

Sansa shakes her head. “Not even close.”

“Should’ve fucking gone south,” Sandor grunts.

Sansa frowns.

Sandor immediately feels like shit and tries to smile. “Lead the way.”

Sansa’s smile returns and she tucks her arm into his with no apparent reservation. “I wasn’t sure exactly when to expect you, you just said the first couple weeks of January, so I had the power and water turned on a couple days ago, and I went and turned the heat on in the apartment yesterday.”

Sandor groans. “Bless you, woman.”

“Okay, close your eyes.”

Sandor narrows his eyes down at her.

Sansa grins cheekily. “I promise not to run you into a street lamp.”

Sandor begrudgingly closes his eyes.

Sansa leads him down the street a couple minutes longer, then stops and gently manhandles him around. “Okay, open.”

Sandor opens his eyes, and can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. The brick building is higher than a standard two-story, to account for the lower-level shop, and it’s got the well-worn sturdiness that seems to pervade all old downtowns. The upper windows are fogged, he assumes from the heater Sansa said she turned on. Something about the place already feels like home. 

“You like it?” Sansa asks hopefully.

Sandor nods. “Aye.”

Sansa jangles keys in front of him. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Sandor takes the keys, barely suppressing the urge to shiver when his fingers brush hers. “Thanks.”

Sandor unlocks the door and steps inside, holding it open for Sansa to step in behind him, then glances around the office and out into the shop. The more he sees, the more the tension in his shoulders unravels.

“You look relieved,” Sansa says.

Sandor chuckles. “You ever bought anything sight unseen?”

Sansa purses her lips. “Do ex-boyfriends count?”

Sandor barks out a laugh. “What?”

Sansa gives an exaggerated shudder. “Online dating. They seem so charming, and then you actually meet face to face and the image fades oh so quickly.”

“Happened more than once, I take it?”

Sansa scrunches her nose. “Three times before I gave up.”

Sandor cocks his head. “You’re young, you’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re considerate… don’t go giving up yet.”

Sansa blushes prettily. “You think I’m gorgeous?”

Sandor scoffs. “Surely you own a mirror.”

Sansa smiles and tucks her arm back through his. “Let me show you around?”

Sandor nods.

“Obviously this is the office. Through this door is the shop.”

“What was it before?”

“A blacksmith.”

Sandor freezes. “A blacksmith?”

Sansa nods. “My brother-in-law, actually. He moved his forge to our family estate when he married my sister this summer and asked me to put the place up for him.”

“So where’s the catch?”

Sansa tilts her head. “Catch?”

“This place is in too good of shape for what I paid for it.”

“Ah,” Sansa nods. “Yes, this place was Gendry’s pride and joy. Quite frankly, our family doesn’t need the money. We were more concerned that it would go to someone worthy of it.”

Sandor frowns. “And you picked me?”

Sansa shrugs. “You seemed like someone who needed a fresh start.”

Sandor closes his eyes and nods. “Aye.”

Sansa squeezes his arm. “Besides, you mentioned you wanted to open up a mechanics shop?”

Sandor opens his eyes and nods. “Aye. I’ve always been good with my hands. And engines are easy.”

Sansa smiles. “Well, aside from some hobbyists, the closest actual shop is in Cerwyn. There may have been a bit of selfish motivation in bringing you here.”

“And the truth comes out,” Sandor teases.

Sansa shrugs unrepentantly.

Sandor shivers. “How about we check out that apartment that has the heat on?”

Sansa laughs and lightly shoves him toward the stairs at the back of the shop.

He sighs in relief when the heat drifts out the door.

Sansa chuckles and closes the door behind them.

The apartment is more spacious than he expected. With wood floors throughout and the whole front wall of windows, it’s inviting - open and warm. Most of the space is open - the kitchen, dining room, and living room all flowing into one another. Sansa makes herself at home by hopping up on the kitchen counter while he wanders. The master bedroom takes up a solid third of the apartment. A walk-through closet that he’s pretty sure could fit the entirety of his belongings lead into the master bath. A massive tub he can’t imagine ever using is tucked into one corner of the master bath, next to a shower that looks like it might actually be big enough to fit his massive frame comfortably.

“Like it?”

Sandor startles and spins.

Sansa grins at him from the closet doorway.

“You’re a quiet little thing.”

Sansa shrugs.

“Aye. I like it.”

“Need help moving your things in? I can call my brothers. A little physical exertion might help the sweat off their hangovers.”

Sandor shakes his head. “No, it’s alright.”

Sansa crosses her arm. “No, really, I insist.”

Sandor shuffles a bit self-consciously. “Really. I, uh, I don’t have anything.”

Sansa frowns.

Sandor shrugs. “I… my last job was a sort of live-in situation. Didn’t have any reason to have my own stuff. Figured I’d buy what I needed when I got here. I’ve got… a lot set aside to set myself up.”

Sansa’s gaze turns calculating. “Are you opposed to thrift stores?”

Sandor scoffs. “I’m a simple man, Miss Stark.”

“Just Sansa, please,” Sansa insists as she pulls her phone out, dialing without looking. “Jeyne! Are you in the shop today? Great! Mind opening up for me for a bit? You’re the best! Be there in ten!” She tilts her gaze back to Sandor. “You strike me as the type that drives a truck?”

“Aye.”

“Let’s go get it.”

Sandor follows her back to the diner in bemusement, lifting an eyebrow when she hops into the passenger seat.

Sansa winks. “Trust me.”

Sandor fires the truck up and follows her directions toward a slightly newer part of town and into the parking lot of _Poole’s Thrift_. He gets out and opens the door for her.

Sansa doesn’t let go of his hand after he hands her out of the truck, instead twining their fingers together and tugging him toward the doors. Two hours later, Sandor owns more _things_ than he’s ever had in his life. The thrift store’s box truck is loaded down with a leather couch set in almost perfect condition, a set of lightly stained end tables and a coffee table that nearly matches, a heavy, dark dining room table with a set of mismatched chairs, a set of equally mismatched barstools, a wrought-iron king-sized bed frame, and a dresser that he’s pretty sure is heavier than he is. In addition to the furniture, he has a full set of silverware that Sansa insists he bleach before using, a box of simple gray dishes - brand new, but missing one coffee cup, a set of cookware - also brand new, missing one of the pan lids, and bright fucking yellow, because he finds himself incapable of saying no in the face of Sansa’s smile.

Sansa shamelessly pickpockets his keys and sends her brothers to furnish his apartment while she rejoins him in his truck and points him toward the one big-box type store that has managed to survive the old-fashioned North.

“Even Northerners appreciate convenience,” Sansa shrugs blithely. “And have you seen anywhere else open today?”

Sandor scoffs. “Point. Who knew so fucking much went into having your own house?”

Sansa giggles. “Most people.”

Sandor groans and bangs his head against the steering wheel, then straightens his shoulders in determination. He gets out and hands her out of the truck. “Alright, what do we get in this place?”

Sansa, once again, doesn’t release his hand. “Things you can’t, well, at least shouldn’t, buy used. Bedding, towels, toiletries,” she tells him as she tugs him through the door, finally releasing him to grab a cart. “Some groceries, I suppose. The market downtown is better, but you can pick up a few basics to get you through until they’re open tomorrow. Oh, gods.” Sansa freezes so fast Sandor runs right into her back. He instinctively wraps an arm around her waist to steady them both. Sansa looks up at him with wide eyes. “Can you cook?”

Sandor laughs. “Aye. I can cook.”

Sansa slumps against him. “Oh, good. I would’ve felt terrible if I insisted on all those kitchen odds and ends and you didn’t even know how to use them! I mean, I would have taught you, of course, but-”

“Sansa,” Sandor cuts her off. “You’re babbling.”

Sansa blushes. “Sorry.”

Sandor squeezes around her waist lightly. “I don’t mind.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “Okay, let’s get this over with. I hate these stores.”

Sandor releases her and lets her lead him through the store with almost ruthless efficiency. She texts her brothers when they leave the store so they’re waiting to cart the rest of his purchases up to the apartment by the time he pulls his truck into the shop. Sansa directs and outright bosses her brothers until she deems everything perfect.

“You owe us for this one, San,” her oldest brother, Robb, gripes as they traipse out near sunset.

Sansa waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Shoo.” She closes the door behind them and turns back to Sandor. “So?”

Sandor glances around the apartment. “It’s…” he clears his throat. “It’s great. I don’t… I’ve never…”

Sansa smiles softly. “It’s just Northern hospitality.”

“Thank you.”

Sansa reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Welcome to Wintertown, Sandor. I hope you can make it a home.”

Sandor shrugs self consciously. “New Year, new start, right?”


	2. Valentine's Day

Sansa bursts into Sandor’s office like the Stranger himself is on her heels and plops into his desk chair without so much as a by-your-leave. He would be more concerned if she hadn’t made a habit of entering his space like that on a regular basis over the last two months.

Sandor simply raises his unscarred brow at her. “At least tell me you brought lunch if you’re going to rope me into today’s drama.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, but lifts a bag of take-out from the diner.

Sandor nods approvingly, taking the box she hands him before gesturing for her to continue.

“I need a date,” Sansa blurts.

Sandor almost chokes on his hamburger. “Excuse me?”

Sansa winces. “Right, uh, so, we host this annual Valentine's gala at Winterfell, and I normally go alone. I can get away with going stag when I'm playing host, ya know? But I just found out my ex is going - not one of the online disasters, by the way, he's actually a really good guy, but we just never would've worked long term - and I  _ can't _ show up alone." 

Sandor blinks. "So you want me to be your fake date to save face in front of your ex?"

"No!" Sansa protests immediately.

"Then what the fuck?"

Sansa's nose scrunches - an expression he  _ still _ finds ridiculously adorable even after more than a month of solid exposure - and then she frowns. "Oh, gods, okay, I see how that sounded. I'm  _ so _ bad at this!" She buries her face in her hands momentarily, and when she looks back up at him, her eyes are a little desperate and a lot terrified. "Sandor, I have been waiting for you to ask me out for a month. Seeing as you haven't, and I really don't want to spend another Valentine's alone, I'm putting myself out there. I  _ want _ you to be my date, my  _ real _ date, to the Valentine's gala…" she bites her lip, and a bit of hope dares to shine in her blue eyes. "Please. If you want."

Sandor sets his hamburger on the desk and reaches for her hand. "Sansa, I haven't been able to tell you no since the day we met."

Wintertown has an actual tailor, whom Sansa drags him to the very same day he agrees to go to the gala with her, and it feels like before he blinks, for the first time in his life, he owns a suit that annually fits. A suit he doesn't pay for. It's a theme he's starting to notice around Sansa.

The night before the gala, snow falls in droves, but Valentine's day is sunny. Cold, but beautiful. He tinkers in the shop through the morning, then showers and dons his suit - matching dark gray jacket and trousers with a black shirt and red tie - late in the afternoon.

He fidgets in front of the mirror for a solid half hour, adjusting his cuff links, straightening his collar, retying his tie, and resisting the urge to run his fingers through his hair, before he finally gives up and leaves.

Fortunately, the roads to Winterfell were cleared really in the morning. Sandor has to admit he gapes a bit at the massive estate. As much time as he's spent with Sansa over the last month and a half, she always comes to him. He hands his truck keys off to a valet in the courtyard and has barely rounded his truck when Robb is right on top of him.

"Thank the gods," Robb puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him away from the throng of other early arrivals and down a secluded hall. "Sansa has spent the last hour panicking that you're not gonna show."

Sandor nearly growls. "Why the hells wouldn't I?"

Robb rolls his eyes. "That's what we've all been telling her, but gods forbid she listens to us." Robb stops outside a wide door, knocks once, then pushes it open, pushes Sandor inside, and practically slams it closed behind him.

Before Sandor can think to go after him and demands an explanation, his eyes fall on Sansa, frantically pacing the rug in front of a roaring fire, hair in a fancy updo, but wearing nothing but a long, white silk robe and muttering to herself. Some trick of the light makes it look like little snow flurries are dancing around her hands.

"Sansa," he calls softly.

Sansa's gaze snaps up and her worried expression is replaced with a soft, almost surprised smile. "Sandor, you came."

"'Course I did. Said I would."

Sansa shrugs helplessly. "I… you came because you wanted to, right? Not just because  _ I  _ wanted you to?"

Before he can overthink it, Sandor crosses the room in a few long strides and pulls Sansa into his arms, then lowers his lips to hers, still slightly parted in surprise. It takes mere seconds for her to sigh into the kiss and twine her arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

He pulls back and rests his forehead against hers. "I want to be here."

Sansa tilts her head back to look at him, eyes shining with their usual happiness once more. "Okay." She presses her lips to his once more, quick and chaste, then steps back. "I have to get dressed."

"I can wait in the hall."

Sansa shakes her head. "I'll go into the other room. Stay, please. I'll need help with the zipper."

Sandor just nods dumbly.

Sansa vanishes through a side door and comes back a few minutes later, simple diamond studs in her ears and a delicate direwolf pendant around her neck, in a floor length red gown. The strapless bodice hugs every curve before the skirt flows out into wide, gauzy layers.

Sandor nearly swallows his tongue. "Gods, you're beautiful."

Sansa blushes. "Thank you." She turns her back to him. "Zip me up?"

Sandor does, indulging a bit and letting his fingers trail slowly up her spine. He bites back a smug from when he's not the only one who shivers.

"Thank you," Sansa smiles.

Sandor nods and tugs at his collar, then offers his arm. "Ready?"

Sansa laughs and shakes her head. "Let's fix you up first, hm?"

Sandor let's get steer him into a nearby chair, and sits still as she undoes his tie and pops open the top button of his dress shirt. He only flinches a bit when she finger combs his hair back from his face and ties it in a low tail as the base of his skull, securing it with a hair tie she produces from seemingly nowhere. 

She smiles down at him. "There. No tie for you and hair back for me."

Sandor laughs and let's her have her way, but he freezes the moment they enter the great hall. A very familiar, very unwelcome, person stands across the hall, in a deep red suit with a fucking golden crossbow strapped across his back. "That's Tyrion fucking Lannister."

Sansa frowns up at him. "You're acquainted?"

Sandor shuffles uncomfortably.

Sansa, already seemingly an expert at reading him, deftly maneuvers him into a nearby alcove, then reaches up to cup his cheek, drawing his attention to her. "Sandor?"

Sandor takes a deep breath. "I never planned on telling you this. I never planned on telling  _ anyone _ this."

"What?"

"I used to work for the Lannisters," Sandor admits. "I did hobble things for them, Sansa. It took me twenty years to break free of them. This, here, Wintertown, this was supposed to be my new start. And then there's one of them standing in the middle of a fucking party."

Sansa caresses his cheek. "We all have a past, Sandor. And Tyrion hasn't talked to his family in a decade. He won't you. Not to his family or to anyone here."

"How do you know?" Sandor demands.

Sansa grimaces.

Understanding dawns. "He's your fucking ex."

"Ex, yes. Fucking, no." Tyrion's voice joins the conversation. "Clegane. Thought that was you. Glad to see you free of my family's clutches. The North is treating you well, I trust? It must be if you're here with dear Sansa." He glances up at Sansa. "Good taste, my dear." His eyes turn back to Sandor. "Sansa and I never would have worked, you know. Two supernatural entities cohabiting? Gods, can you imagine the chaos?"

Sansa very unsubtly kicks Tyrion in the shin.


	3. St. Mance's Day

“How many bloody holidays do you people have?” Sandor grumbles as Sansa drags him through the remnants of the ancient Wall and toward a massive group of people in the clearing beyond.

Sansa winks over her shoulder. “St. Mance’s is a Free Folk Holiday, but it’s all about unity so they always invite anyone who wants to come.”

“Unity my ass!” A giant ginger appears next to them and deftly tugs Sansa into his arms, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around.

Sansa laughs brightly and swats at the man playfully. “Yes, unity! Mance was the first to unite the Free Folk together.”

“Aye, and the wee crow was the first to unite them with you fucking Southron folk. What’s your point?”

Sansa rolls her eyes and swats at him again. “Put me down, you lug.”

The man rolls his eyes, but obliges.

“The  _ point _ is that the point of the holiday is unity.”

The man snorts. “Gonna introduce your friend?”

Sansa twines her fingers through Sandor’s and tugs him forward, wrapping her other hand around his arm and resting her head against his bicep. “This is Sandor.”

“Ah, so this is the cunt the imp was talkin’ ‘bout.”

Sansa kicks his ankle. “Gods, your mouth! Get with the times!”

“Never,” the man grins.

Sansa sighs. “Sandor, this insensitive jerk is Tormund. He’s one of my oldest friends.”

Tormund offers a hand and Sandor shakes it with the one Sansa isn’t clutching. “Nice to finally meet you. Been a while since San showed an interest in anyone. Lots of places to hide a body up here if you ever hurt her… just saying.”

“Tormund!” Sansa protests.

Tormund shrugs unrepentantly. “Just stating the facts.” He grins at Sandor. “Now, truth is, the lass is right. All this nonsense is celebrating unity. But really, it’s just an excuse to get really fucking drunk.”


	4. Independence Day

"Why is this such a big deal, again?" Sandor asks, warily eyeing the massive festival they're approaching.

Sansa's expression turns serious. "Because it's our history. The North was an independent kingdom for centuries before Westeros was untied, and it was a long, hard journey to regaining that independence. History is important."

"Those who do not heed history are doomed to repeat it," Sandor quotes.

Sansa nods, eyes shining almost inhumanely blue. "And the North remembers."

They buy dinner from a booth Osha set up, then Sansa drags him out onto the dance floor, swaying to the music, and singing along under her breath. Sandor holds her close, savoring the moment. Sansa tilts her head back and smiles at him. He doesn’t resist when her hands slide down and fist in his shirt, tugging him down for a kiss right there in the middle of the dance floor.

He groans when they part, stooping to bury his face in the crook of her neck. “I don’t know what you see in me, Little Bird, but I thank gods I don’t even believe in for you.”

Sansa turns her face enough to press her lips to his temple.

He pulls back enough to kiss her again before straightening up. 

“So,” Sansa smirks up at him. “Little Bird?”

Sandor blushes. “Aye. Always singin’ or chirpin’ to feel the silence.”

Sansa blushes and looks down at their feet.

Sandor lightly chucks her chin up. “I like hearing your voice.”


	5. Thanksgiving

Sandor is not above admitting he’s moping. He knew Sansa would tire of him eventually, but had selfishly hoped to have longer with her before she had realized how much better she could do than him. Less than a year. It’s the longest relationship he’s ever had. It doesn’t feel like long enough. He has a sneaking suspicion that forever wouldn’t feel like long enough.

Sansa’s already pulling away, though. It was subtle at first, but it’s been more obvious in recent months. She still stops by the shop to bring him lunch. Random trinkets, the things that have gradually turned his apartment into a home - figurines and photos and decorative pillows - still pop up at random. They still have dinner together a couple times a week, and he still wakes up with Sansa tucked into his arms at least once a week. 

Despite all of that, he can feel Sansa withdrawing. She’s almost constantly wrapped up in her own head, and he swears he can feel the nervous energy that always seems to spark around her increasing.

He’s pulled from his reverie by his cell phone ringing. He glances down and sees _Runt_ on the screen. “The fuck do you want, Arya?”

“Where the fuck are you?” Arya demands.

Sandor frowns. “What the hells are you talking about?”

“It’s Thanksgiving, dumbass.”

“Point?”

“My point is that dinner is in an hour and I’m pretty sure the only reason Sansa isn’t crying over you not being here yet is because she’s still losing her mind in the kitchen so your first Thanksgiving together is perfect. Only you’re not here. So get your ass over here before she notices. Because if she ends up crying, I swear to all the gods I will come over just to put a boot up your ass.”

“I wasn’t invited, Runt.”

“Wasn’t invit- _gods_ she’s such a ditz this time of year. Get over here. Now.”

The call goes dead and Sandor stares at his phone for a solid minute before dragging himself to his room to change out of his sweats and into jeans and a button up. He overthinks his way through the drive to Winterfell, only pulling himself from his thoughts when he sees Robb pacing the courtyard when he arrives.

Robb visibly sags in relief. “Thank the gods. We were starting to think we were going to have to send someone into town to drag you out here. _Please_ get into the kitchen before she realizes you haven’t been here the whole time.”

Sandor rolls his eyes, but makes his way to the kitchen, and finds Sansa frantically stirring pots and poking at casserole dishes and looking positively frazzled. The angst that’s been gripping his heart seeps away and he steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and pulling her away from the stove to kiss her neck.

Sansa melts back against him. “Sandor, you made it.”

“Would’ve been here earlier,” he rumbles against her ear, “but I didn’t realize I was invited.”

Sansa turns in his arms with a frown. "Did I not… oh, gods, I forgot to actually invite you, didn’t I? I’m so, so sorry, Sandor. I’m so scatterbrained this time of year.” She drops her head against his chest and her shoulders slump. “I’m sorry.”

Sandor gently rubs his hands up and down her back, hushing her. “Easy, Little Bird. I’m here. Now, what do you need help with?”

Sansa melts into him again, and the rest of the day feels more like those first few months together again.


	6. Sevenmas

Sandor is back to moping. Since Thanksgiving, he’s only seen Sansa a handful of times, and she’s always distracted and antsy. Secretly, he’d been hoping to spend his first Sevenmas in more than thirty years  _ with _ someone. But the week before Sevenmas passes without so much as a text from Sansa, and Sevenmas Eve finds Sandor sitting on his couch, staring forlornly at a small velvet box on his coffee table. 

He dozes off at some point. A cold gust wakes him near dawn, and he blinks at the sparkling swirl of snow forming near his window. Between one blink and the next, Sansa is standing in front of him, snow still swirling around her.

Sandor blinks. “Sansa?”

Sansa bites her lip. “Um, Merry Sevenmas.”

Sandor tilts his head toward her, looking more closely. She’s dressed in furs from head to toe, dyed a deep red and trimmed in white. Her black boots gleam. Her fiery tresses hang loose down her back, partially covered by the hat on her head. And there’s still a sparkling swirl of snow circling around her.

Sansa takes a shuddering breath. “I owe you an explanation.”

Sandor forces himself to his feet, but can’t quite make his mouth work, just keeps staring dumbly down at her. 

“The end of the year, well, it’s kind of my time of year,” Sansa shrugs. “The magic of Sevenmas builds throughout the year until I can’t contain it. It can be a bit… all-consuming and distracting? My siblings swear it makes me a bit, well, insane, from about November to Sevenmas.”

Sandor reaches up somewhat absently, rubbing Sansa’s collar between his fingers.

“I should have told you, but I didn’t know how.”

Some of the fog finally clears from Sandor’s mind, and he smiles down at her softly. “Little Bird, are you trying to tell me I’m in love with Santa Calus?”

Sansa holds her hands out to her sides and smiles nervously. “Surprise!” She frowns. “Wait. Did you just say you’re in love with me?”

Sandor chuckles and steps away, grabbing the little velvet box off the coffee table before turning back to Sansa and holding it up to her.

Sansa’s blue eyes go wide. “Sandor?”

Sandor grins. “Might as well do this right.” He drops down to one knee. “Only the gods know why you want me, Sansa Stark, but I realized around Thanksgiving that as long you would have me, forever wouldn’t be long enough.” He opens the box. “Will you marry me?”

Tears fill Sansa’s eyes, even as she laughs. “You did catch the bit where I’m absolutely crazy about two months out of the year, right?”

Sandor nods. “Aye.”

“And you still want to marry me?”

“Aye. As long as I know it’s general crazy, and not you closing me out… I can live with it, Little Bird.”

Sansa laughs. “Gods, I love you.”

“That a yes, then?”

Sansa nods fervently. “Yes, Sandor. Yes!”

There’s a moment of awkward fumbling as Sansa tries to tug her gloves off to put the ring on, but they manage it in short enough order, and then Sansa is throwing herself into his arms and peppering kisses all over his face. Sandor eventually manages to wrap one of his hands around the back of her neck and guide her mouth to his. She sighs into him and he manages to stumble back and collapse onto the couch, Sansa in his lap, bringing Sansa down with him and settling her in his lap without ever breaking the kiss. 

Sandor breaks away from her lips trail kisses along hermjw and down her neck. A stray thought makes him chuckle.

Sansa hums questioningly.

“Does this make me Mrs. Claus?”

Sansa throws her head back laughing. “Gods, Tyrion asked me the exact same thing.”

“Tyrion knows?” Sandor growls.

Sansa flinches. “Right, uh, you remember that Valentine’s gala?”

“Aye. Lannister was dressed as Cu-” Sandor suddenly remembers Tyrion’s comment at the party.  _ Two supernatural entities cohabiting? Gods, can you imagine the chaos? _ “Are you telling me that little fucker is  _ actually _ Cupid?”

Sansa nods. “Yes. And you’ve met Tormund a few times now?”

Sandor nods. “Aye.”

“He was St. Mance’s successor.”

Sandor frowns. “St. Mance was alive during the last Iron Throne Wars.”

Sansa bites her lip and nods. “We’ve all known each other a very long time.”

“Exactly how old are you woman?”`

Sansa’s nose scrunches. “That’s a rude question.”

“I just asked you to marry me,” Sandor counters.

Sansa laughs. “Magic is a funny thing, Sandor.” She kisses him lightly. “It tends to let you keep the ones you love.”

Sandor brushes a loose strand of hair away from her face. “So I’m stuck with you forever, am I, love?”

Sansa leans in until their lips nearly meet. “I do believe you just said that wouldn’t be long enough.”

Sandor closes the space between them, speaking his answer against her lips. “Not long enough by half, Little Bird.”


End file.
